RUDIMENTS pt. 514
(trouble in mind, but I don't mind)
I got to NYCity with my
integrity intact? I tell
myself yes, and, having
survived numerous and
lengthy, hazardous
moments, I look back
now with senses of
awe and wonder. I
always felt I flew like
a bird from that bus-stop
in Carteret for my first,
get-outta-town-Mr. Brown
flight from Avenel. And
saints be praised. One of
the first real problems I
had, which was freaky
for me, was getting a
pick-up proposal (which
I will NOT entirely get
into here). I simply was
taken by surprise and
did not know how to
react, nor what was
happening to me. This
very refined, nattily
dressed, and almost
'Oxfordian,' black guy,
of middle age to my
18, as I was passing
his outdoor dining
table, at a village
eatery, spoke out to
me - to come over. He
asked if I was hungry,
as hungry I appeared.
I took his offer, sat
down and ate some.
He asked me some
questions, innocuous
stuff, and then veered
into hippie concerns,
asked or stating that IF
I was one I was the most
naive Hippie he'd ever
seen. Then we walked,
and ended up to his local
residence, whereat I went
inside. Stupid me. You
may imagine the rest -
vivid, raw, shocking and
fast. I told him to please
put Mr. Large Purple away,
and I got up, no longer
defanged, and ready to
kill this guy if need be.
He let me leave. All
these years later the
scene unfolds as I write
it. Had I the ready means,
and had he resisted my
leaving, he perhaps would
have been dead. I did
certainly learn the value
of a sandwich. Not worth
that much, (unless maybe
he had a sister or a daughter
to offer in his stead. I did
have my personal honor,
and integrity, again, intact).
So what is it about all this?
Over at Tompkins Square
Park, this went on often too.
No one knew whatever to
make of all these weird
psycho-ward runaways and
young-kid hippies anyway,
so a lot of it soon became
predatory sexual playground
stuff, as well as the prevalent
drugs and alcohol scene. I
was always a fairly liberal
guy and I never really cared
who did what with whom
and to what, etc. It never
mattered to me, as long
as I was left alone. It
was when sex became
predatory, and the predatory
was usually onto the male
on male drive, that I got
disturbed. To my astonishment,
in a few years all that became
a movement, and then an
accepted practice; which
was all pretty amazing to
unschooled eyes like mine.
Now, years later, it's even
got its own demands and
is everywhere. And good
for that, I say - just leave
me alone. I'm an egotist
like that, you know.
-
Tompkins Square Park
was a ground-zero of
this movement and conflict
stuff. Hippies, kids, zombies,
freaks, called by any name
you'd like, swarmed over,
in 1967, what was still a
large, paralyzed, morose,
and depressing population
of east European survivors.
World War II, internment
camps, death camps, poisons,
bombs and shock. Some
of them never came back
out of that deepened fog.
It used to be amazing to
see them, there, and all
along Upper Broadway
too, for that matter, at
the west 70's and 80's.
Benches filled with them
as they sat about, staring,
small heavily dressed
and stupefied. The airy
flightiness of all these
new kids distorted the
rest of life all around
them - to which
they'd just been trying
to acclimate - and it
was gone again. They
were in an induced and
silent fury. Their war was
over - that one at least -
and this new one was
worse.The world was
weird. Then. Yes. too.
I had a Polish concentration
camp survivor near my
corner at 11th - he ran
the tiniest little sandwich
shop and counter. Mornings,
afternoons. Opened at like
5:30, rolls, coffee, donuts,
oatmeal, eggs. A lot of the
Con Ed generating station
people from over at the end
of 14th, they'd be in there
before shift - 8 or 10 chairs
and a few tables, and the
counter. This guy had camp
numbers tattooed up his arm.
He was nearly pink; lightly
colored, and his eyes were
always tearing. Little pink
lids and rimmed-beady
Polish eyes. My heart used
to go out to him. All he did
seem so burdensome and
sorrowful. He fed me, days
on end, for a quarter - a
morning roll, a small bowl
of oatmeal, and coffee.
Never asked for anything
really - I'd swab a table
or the counter for him,
now or the, but that was
it. We had a silent alliance:
I'd never ask, he'd never tell.
That world, that world was
really something else.
-
Maybe it's all just me and
I'm way wrong. I wouldn't
care if it was - most of
that gender stuff is not
my problem, and I'm
certainly not about to let
it be that - and such is
my right, the right to be
let alone. If they get shitty
with me, I tell people my
parents were gay - they
believe me and walk away.
I tell them, as well, when
they ask the breed of my
dog, that she's an 'American
Short-Haired Lazy Bones.'
Maybe they do a double
take, yes, but they mostly
believe me. They're that
stupid, sometimes. Today's
NY Times has an article
written by someone named
Andrea Long Chu. Fine, and
good for it - it opens with,
"On Thursday, I will get a
vagina. The procedure will
last about 6 hours, and I will
be in recovery about 6 months."
Yep, and I hope so.
-
A part of me wants to say,
'What do I know, and what
do I care?' But I can't bring
myself to that point.
-
A part of me wants to say,
'What do I know, and what
do I care?' But I can't bring
myself to that point.
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